


Reconnaissance

by days4daisy



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02ep09 The Prodigal, M/M, Power Dynamics, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: What is Tallmadge playing at?--Takes place during Episode 2x09: The Prodigal





	

What is Tallmadge playing at?

Convenient timing for the major to agree to serve under General Lee. His apology was a surprise, particularly in front of Lee's officers. The men exchanged glances and waited on Bradford's reply. Turning down Tallmadge's help would have appeared petty given the rare show of contrition.

Besides, the major is right, though Bradford is loathe to admit it. Tallmadge's Dragoons do offer an advantage in the upcoming battle. Or, they would if the affair were not counterfeit. It will be sweet to watch General Lee send Tallmadge's Dragoons first into battle. Finally, an end to this pointless war. If Bradford is lucky, he'll soon see Tallmadge flattened under the boots of his own retreating men.

The apology may have been in earnest, though Bradford has his doubts. But its possible sincerity does not explain what Tallmadge is doing now. He's seated a safe distance away from Lee's men, but well within earshot. The flames of the nearest fire reflect off the major's face. His officer's coat is off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He hoists a flask off his leg for a drink.

Tallmadge, all alone without that bear Brewster for protection? It's a rare opportunity. Bradford's belly is warm with ale, and he is riding high on the day's success. He sees no reason to stop now. "Oy, Tallmadge," Bradford beckons. Tallmadge lifts his head. Sure enough, a flush of warmth is visible on the major's cheeks. A glory hound and a lush then! "Care to go over the early figures for our campaign?"

Tallmadge's eyes narrow, sharper than their drink-haze should allow. "Now?"

"No better time." Bradford rises. "This way." He pauses at the lip of the fire pit, waiting. Their bystanders turn, chatter silenced.

Tallmadge nods curtly. "Yes, sir." Bradford's mouth curls. 

Bradford leads the way back to the general's tent. Tallmadge follows. The flask, Bradford notes, goes into a back pocket of Tallmadge's pants. God knows there is no room in the front. Boys like Tallmadge give credence to the rumors of Washington collecting young men for his own whims. Cocky and brash, pretty mouths begging to be shut.

Bradford flips back the tent mouth with emphasis. Tallmadge bends in behind him. He tries to light a lamp but curses, tripping over something in the dark.

"I've got them." Bradford snaps. "Can't hold your drink, eh major?" Bradford can almost feel him biting back retorts. Tallmadge's failures are their own addiction.

Lantern light glows off dirt-streaked white canvas. Tallmadge's teeth are grit, but he surrenders quietly. "My apologies, sir." He finally looks as contrite as his station should allow. Head lowered, pride stamped. Quiet in anticipation of his commanding officer's next order. 

It's implausible, yes, this abrupt change of heart. But it's more intoxicating than any ale. Bradford drinks in the sight of him - silent, submissive, and waiting. "You still have that flask on you?" Bradford asks.

Tallmadge pulls it from his pocket. At their proximity, Bradford sees just how unfocused his eyes are, dazed and wet. 

Bradford raises the open flask to his lips. No wonder the major is out of it. The drink makes even his practiced tongue trip. "The hell is this?" Bradford sputters.

"I acquired it from my man Brewster."

"On the black market, is he?" Profiteering without a license will get even the most loyal patriot imprisoned. If not hanged, depending on the mood of the commanding officer.

Tallmadge cracks a smile. "I confess, I've turned a blind eye to the trade. It boosts the morale of the men."

"You benefit from his dealings too, clearly," Bradford accuses.

"Clearly," Tallmadge agrees, without hesitation.

Bradford shrugs and takes another swig from the flask. It's bloody terrible, but a lightning-fast way to be flannel-wrapped, he reckons. He hands the flask back to Tallmadge, watching the Major take a long drink of his own. His throat bobs and his eyes close. Bradford allows himself a lick of his lips. Funny that Tallmadge was once so cavalier about what he called Lee's 'whore-pipe.' 'Whore' is exactly the word Bradford would use for Tallmadge. A whore to Washington. A whore for glory. And now, a whore for the side that most benefits him. 

Well, if Tallmadge has such a blatant need to spread his legs for victory, Bradford is happy to oblige him. At least until their final deceit plays itself out. Would Major Andre pay extra if Bradford personally delivered Tallmadge to him? It's a delicious thought. The major in chains, strung into the waiting noose of the British.

"The figures, Tallmadge." Bradford forces exasperation. "Are you even coherent enough for strategy?"

"I am, sir," Tallmadge assures him. He tucks away the flask and moves to the maps on the table at the far end of the tent. Bradford does not miss how unsteady he is on his feet. Something hot and anxious shoots through his limbs. "Lee expects the chapel on the south east front to be our best point of attack?"

"He _knows_ it," Bradford boasts. "For one of the first times in this war, we have the clear numbers advantage. The British hold at this site is under 2,000 men."

Tallmadge's eyes snap towards him. "Where did he come by these numbers?"

"Not by your faulty intelligence, I can tell you that much." Bradford folds his arms. "Would you believe good old-fashioned scouting?"

Tallmadge smiles bitterly. "I would." 

Bradford has struck a nerve, and he finds no reason to release it. "Rumor has it, you've been relieved as Washington's Chief of Intelligence. Is that true?"

Tallmadge's expression darkens. "Yes, it is."

Bradford snorts. "So much time and energy wasted. You were to be reassigned to Boston before this latest opportunity?"

"That's correct." Bradford cocks his head, waiting. Tallmadge huffs. "Sir."

"Good thing we caught you before you were tossed to the gutter, Tallmadge." Bradford is relishing every moment of this. If only there were time to inform Andre of this downgrade! "Washington was wrong to discard you. You were outside your bounds at the intelligence game. But your Dragoons are still capable of assisting in these larger campaigns."

Tallmadge stands silent before him, hands clenched at his sides. Bradford's smile ticks higher. He is so close to breaking. 

"Well?" Bradford coaxes. Tallmadge sucks in a breath. Bradford smirks in anticipation. 

"It's horse shite," Tallmadge grits.

"Oh, I don't know," Bradford purrs. "Boston isn't so bad-"

"Washington wouldn't know proper intelligence if it bit him in the arse!" 

Oh. Well now, Bradford was not expecting this. A strange, sharp light ignites in Tallmadge's eyes. "I defended him when no one else would," he hisses. "Hell, I defended him against the likes of you and your ilk. Against Gates and Lee, who demean him at every turn." 

"That's 'General Lee' to you, major. And I'll have you know, the general apologized for-"

"I presented Washington with _fact_ , plain and simple." Tallmadge snorts. "But Washington isn't _man_ enough for truth. He isn't capable of doing what's right, or listening to reason. He's why," Tallmadge's expression sours, "he's why Nathaniel Sackett is dead. He's why so many of our men continue to fall without recourse. Washington is _incapable_ of leading this army."

Bradford absorbs the outburst in stunned bemusement. Preposterous. Treasonous, if overheard by the wrong ears. To hear Washington's house pet speak ill of the commander? It's more than Bradford could have ever dreamed!

"Careful, Tallmadge." Bradford warns. "The truth is no longer welcome in this camp."

"Someone once told me that opinion formed on fact is necessary." Tallmadge is _shaking_ with anger. Inebriated, furious, and screaming to be touched. "You called me Washington's man. I was. But he turned his back on me, as he's turned his back on this militia." He bangs a fist on Lee's table for emphasis. "I will be proud to ride at the front for General Lee. Let Washington see what a true leader looks like."

The poor soul is in for a shock, isn't he? Bradford almost pities him... "You're quite the eloquent drunk, Tallmadge," he observes. Tallmadge toasts him with the flask and takes a long drink. He wipes his sullied mouth on his forearm. 

Bradford extends a hand for it, and Tallmadge obliges. He also sways against Bradford's side without warning. Tallmadge blinks and shakes his head. His hands clamp around the edges of the table. 

"Overdid it, did we?" Bradford drinks in the arch of Tallmadge's back. His shoulders. Those strong legs disappearing into his boots.

Tallmadge's response is an unsteady "Mmm."

A swig of the foul drink gives Bradford added incentive. He plugs up the flask and sets it on the table. Then drags a hand down Tallmadge's back. It traces his spine to hook into the waist of his pants. "So much passion wasted on Washington."

"Too much," Tallmadge mumbles. He turns. Bradford's hand dips under the front of his waist. Tallmadge trips into him. The heat of his resentment pours off him in waves. He smells of drink and grass. Pink-cheeked and moist-lipped.

"I can think of other ways to occupy that passion," Bradford muses. Tallmadge stares at him thoughtfully. 

When he kisses Bradford, the exchange is far less sloppy than Bradford expects. His action is assured, steady. His hands, firm on Bradford's shirt. Maybe Tallmadge truly is a whore, so practiced in these actions that he can do them even in this state of drink. Tallmadge snakes fingers into Bradford's hair, demanding and angling. Bradford grabs his waist, forcing as much friction as he can. Tallmadge weighs his body against the table. Papers scatter behind them as the wooden legs rock. Bradford tastes his tongue and feels his breaths stutter. He doesn't think anything else about this night could surprise him. 

Then, Tallmadge drops to his knees. "What the hell are you doing?" Bradford demands. Tallmadge is already unbuckling his slacks. 

"You told me I had a pretty mouth once." Bradford is too startled to gloat. It has been fun to force his rival to bow to his command, yes. His contempt for Washington was a delicious surprise. Now, Benjamin Tallmadge is on his knees, ale-numbed fingers struggling to free his cock? It does not seem possible.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Bradford clenches a fist in Tallmadge's hair. Tallmadge winces but does not complain. "Are you a virgin, major?"

"I'll manage," Tallmadge says.

This grows more interesting by the minute. "Will you?" Bradford takes himself in a hand. Guides his half-hard cock towards the major's lips. "I'd hate to hurt this pretty face of yours."

"I'll manage, _sir_ ," Tallmadge mutters. The respectful title puts it over the top.

This is not a good idea. Tallmadge seems far more in control of his faculties than he should. Demeaned or not, it makes him dangerous. But Bradford cannot deny himself something this grand, even on the eve of his greatest deceit. 

He drags the tip of his shaft against Tallmadge's lips. Tallmadge holds eye contact admirably as Bradford's cock inches into him. He's hot and moist, tongue tasting the underside. His cheeks redden as his air gets thin. 

Halfway down, Tallmadge is forced to close his eyes, all effort on relaxing his jaw. His lips are all the incentive Bradford's body needs. He thickens, fat and quick, in Tallmadge's mouth. The girth forces Tallmadge to widen the curl of his lips. His head bobs under Bradford's fist. Bradford stares.

In moments, Tallmadge's mouth nuzzles the curls at the base of his cock. Little more than a quiet choking sound. His face betrays no other sign of struggle. Bradford thumbs a touch of saliva from a corner of his mouth.

Tallmadge draws his head back, Bradford's cock glistening from head to tip. "Jesus," Bradford breathes. Tallmadge swallows him again.

He is far better than he should be. Far better than _anyone_ should be. Tallmadge does not need direction from the hand in his hair. He urges Bradford down his throat expertly. It's absurd! Benjamin Tallmadge, sucking his shaft like an expert whore. Brow furrowed with concentration. Mouth dragging across Bradford's skin. Short bursts of breath from his nostrils.

Bradford hears him grunt before he sees why. Tallmadge has freed himself of his own belt buckle. He has his own erection out, squeezing in time with his mouth's advance. 

Is he...enjoying Bradford's cock this much? Bradford juts his hips back. Tallmadge stutters after him, mouth gaped at the absence of Bradford's erection. His eyes open, bleary and confused first. Then, angry. On his knees, cock held between spit-slick fingers. This is better than anything Bradford could have imagined. Not just control, but ownership! A secret that could ruin Tallmadge if Bradford said the word. 

With more clarity, Tallmadge glares up at Bradford. He descends again, reclaiming Bradford's cock with his mouth. A hum of pleasure as he touches himself in time. 

"Lots of practice on Washington, eh major?" Bradford reclines against the table, cock jumping up into Tallmadge's mouth. He lets himself relax too much. Lets down his guard.

He isn't expecting the wet finger that ghosts between his legs. It makes him jump, startled when Tallmadge's mouth descends on him again. Tallmadge's gaze sits, low-lidded, on the base of his stomach. If he's noticed Bradford's reaction to the touch, he gives no indication. And why would he? Tallmadge has no way of knowing _this_ secret of Bradford's. No reason to suspect that Bradford's low tremor is anything beyond aggravation.

Bradford puts on his most menacing glower. "I didn't say you could - ah!" He jerks when the finger tests him again, a wet press past the crown. Pressure blossoms between his legs. A pain that quickly dulls to something soft, familiar. A careful, coaxing touch, soothing muscle into pliancy. Open and ready. His thighs shudder, and his cock jumps. It's enough to set Bradford's nerves on edge. He has not been filled in a long while. Too long. 

Tallmadge makes a low sound, adjusting to the movement. His blushed, heavy shaft is glossed damp between his own fingers.

"I don't..." Two fingers now, a gentle scissor of pressure inside him. Bradford's legs split wider against his better judgment. The touch feels good. Too good. He should put a stop to this.

But what danger is Bradford in? The prat is too dulled by drink to catch on to Bradford's sudden vulnerability. He does not need to know how much Bradford _likes_ to be touched in this manner. Tallmadge is too busy feasting on Bradford's cock like it's a prized cut of meat. Something that has been absent from army rations since Bradford enlisted in the cause. Long before he realized the whole Colonies dream was horse shite.

Apparently encouraged by Bradford's silence, Tallmadge gives him more. Fingers, pressed in to the second knuckle. Splitting and stroking until Bradford's legs shiver. "Easy," Bradford hisses, fist tight in Tallmadge's hair. He pulls until he gets a growl.

His hand works inside Bradford faster and deeper. A torturous rhythm that Bradford stiffens against, even as his waist rocks in time. He thrusts himself higher, satisfied by Tallmadge's stifled chokes. Bradford sees the line of saliva break down a corner of his lips. Smears it across Tallmadge's face; he wants Tallmadge dirty and wet for him. Tallmadge meets his eyes; burning, hot and defiant. Bradford wants to break him. He'll have no greater opportunity than this.

Then, Tallmadge is fucking him harder, and Bradford loses track of his thoughts. His hips spasm forward without control. Tallmadge groans around him, his own breaths quickened. Bradford digs bruises into his face. Rides the fingers inside him until he's spilling into Tallmadge's mouth. Drained, clenched and shuddering. 

Tallmadge spits his release on the ground and wipes his mouth against the back of a hand. The fingers inside Bradford depart. "You'll be cleaning that," Bradford slurs. 

He watches, dazed, as Tallmadge's full attention turns to his own cock. Tallmadge sits back. Hard, impatient pumps of a spit-slick fist. Squeezing around the head. Tight, firm strokes. The practiced maneuvers of one well-versed in boxing the Jesuit. His breaths rasp, mouth swollen from Bradford's shaft. He looks _wrecked_ , brow creased, face glowing. 

Forget being Washington or Lee's man. Tallmadge looks like Bradford's man now. His personal back gammon boy. Who knew Tallmadge would look so grand on his knees.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip when he brings himself relief. His orgasm shudders through him, forms a tight sound in the back of his throat. Tallmadge slumps on the ground, swallowing air. His release marks the grass in milky white strands. "You'll be cleaning that too, Tallmadge," Bradford mumbles.

"Yes, sir." Voice ravaged by Bradford's shaft. Breaths shuddering between swollen lips.

Bradford clumsily hooks himself back into his pants. "Come here," he orders. Tallmadge frowns up at him. 

Slowly, he complies, grunting discomfort as he tucks himself back into his britches. They're so tight that Bradford sees the outline of his half-hard shaft through them. No doubt, the fabric will stain, wet from seed and spit. The thought makes Bradford lick his lips, very aware of the wetness drying between his own legs.

Tallmadge barely manages to stand before Bradford hooks an arm around him. Tallmadge scowls under his kiss, somewhere between aggravation and amusement. But he returns the gesture, fingers hooked in Bradford's shirt. His thumb drags across the hollow of Bradford's throat.

"I want you in my quarters, major," Bradford says.

"I'm not sure that's wise." A pause, an exchanged look. "Sir," Tallmadge adds, voice delectably rasped.

"Hold five minutes and follow." Bradford glares. "I'm your direct commander. Remember that." Their sweat-stained bodies pressed together. Tallmadge's mouth still swollen from Bradford's cock.

"All right," Tallmadge says.

With a smirk, Bradford leaves the general's tent. He expects Tallmadge not to show. But after five minutes exactly, Tallmadge appears in his tent. Bradford has undressed to the waist. He does not need to hail the major. Tallmadge comes on his own. A knee between Bradford's. Tired mouths meeting. Hands down bodies. 

They sleep somehow, long bodies sprawled on a single man's cot.

In the morning, Bradford leaves him asleep, face tucked against a forearm. He revels in Tallmadge's chapped lips and the faint bruises on his chin. 

Bradford reports for duty without a hint of last night's debauchery. God knows what state Tallmadge will be in when he comes to. "Morning, General," Bradford greets as he enters Lee's tent.

"Have you seen the numbers, Bradford?" Lee waves a hand towards the table. The maps are still present, but their intelligence pages are gone. "And what is _that_?" He waves a hand towards the flask sitting on a corner.

Bradford frowns. He has no good answer for the flask, so he offers none. Instead, he busies himself checking side pockets and manuscripts. With every passing moment, his anger mounts.

It can't be. There is no way Tallmadge could have... Not in his state...

"They must be misplaced, sir." Bradford stalks out of the tent. "I'll check my quarters."

He isn't surprised to find his bed empty. He also isn't any less angry.

His fury builds upon his return to the general's tent. Just in time for a fully dressed, perfectly poised Benjamin Tallmadge to cross their paths. "Morning," he offers. Bradford's only saving grace is his voice - a hoarse, painful gravel.

Lee takes a step back, expression scrunched with distaste. "Are you ill, major?" he grumbles.

"Touch of chill, that's all." He nods once to Lee, and once to a fuming Bradford. "I'm looking forward to assisting with this campaign. Thank you for the opportunity."

"We'll reconvene in an hour." Lee barges his way back into his tent, muttering about close quarters and unclean rabble.

"You prat," Bradford hisses. "i know it was you."

Tallmadge smiles. "I'll see you in an hour, sir." He takes his leave.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> A rewatch of Season 2 convinced me that I needed more of this ship to exist /o\


End file.
